that human breath blew the brush of the hay along the dirt floor within. The sounds followed him without changing volume as he shuffled past, adding to their repertoire the slide of his rubber boots along the stiffening snow. When he turned to look behind him some 500 feet, he could still hear the flapping sides, the low whistles through the gaps between the boards, the soft breathing of the night breeze swelling the flap of tarp in and out, in and out. The barn was but a flat, black smudge against the darkening sky, a carelessly cut square of black construction paper pasted there by a greater hand. The line of the woods beyond met the black box, melted into it, and re-emerged on the other side to carry on its jagged design beneath the two cities’ glow.
He passed by Isaac’s house—all the sharecroppers’ houses were located ne ar barns—a dark and lifeless a thing as the barn, except for the glint of a fire he saw as he walked within a few feet of a window.
“Who’s there?” came a bodiless voice with some alarm.
“It’s me, Isaac, Mr. Mainwaring. Just coming back from Mr. Forster’s.”
“You giv e me quite a start,” came the sigh of his relief. “It’s awful dark tonight, ain’t it, sir?”
“Sure is, Isaac. Think we’ll have some current in a few days. If you need anything, let me know.”
“We be all right, Mr. Mainwaring.”
“I’ve got no phone, Isaac, but we could get out in an emergency. Better close your door. Don’t let your heat out.”
“It’s awful cold , sir.”
“Cut from the woods if you need to before the current comes back on, but not after.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not after, Isaac. Understand?”
“Yes , sir. Thank you, sir.”
Crossett did n ot let anyone cut from the woods of Winterhurst except in the most extreme of circumstances. In fact, he himself bought his own firewood. Nor did he let anyone hunt there, not with a gun, anyway, although he had given the Barrow Hunt Club permission to pursue the fox hunt through Winterhurst as a further concession to his riderless status within it. Besides, if he had not, the club would have had to ride on Green Spring Road to get to the next farm through which they could hunt, and such stubbornness on Crossett’s part may have lost him his membership and as he was socially correct in Barrow, he could not let that happen.
Where Isaac had dragged a makeshift plow along the f arm road, Crossett could hear the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, but the smooth, lumpy surface promised to turn to icy glass as the temperature dropped. Gingerly, he picked his way along the newly cut road past the corn crib and sheds sheltering the four tractors to the farm gate that led into the lawns of Winterhurst. The snowflakes tapped a few still-dangling brown papery leaves as he passed beneath the trees. He stopped to listen for a sigh among the shiftless branches as the wind swept in a gust through the walkway leading like a gauntlet through the two rows of maples that branched out into the sweeping lawn. The only sigh he heard was his own as he bemoaned the towering shadow of his house ahead.
It was Twynne’s matter-of-fact attitude that had made the visit so unsatisfying. He had spoken of ghosts as if they were no more than cats and dogs roaming the premises, underfoot at times, but generally cooperative. He had exhibited irritation at Crossett’s skepticism, the same Crossett whom years ago Twynne had ridiculed for alarm at Winterhurst’s strange nocturnal noises. That is indeed how it all had started. As alliances were in a constant state of flux among Crossett and his three brothers, he had one day in a fit of camaraderie revealed to his younger brother Edmund his fear of Winterhurst’s nightly sounds. He was not to learn until a few days later what a mistake he had made. When Twynne next spent the night, Crossett found himself corralled and herded into the abyss of his closet. It was even greater sport because Crossett was the eldest
He passed by Isaac’s house—all the sharecroppers’ houses were located ne ar barns—a dark and lifeless a thing as the barn, except for the glint of a fire he saw as he walked within a few feet of a window.
“Who’s there?” came a bodiless voice with some alarm.
“It’s me, Isaac, Mr. Mainwaring. Just coming back from Mr. Forster’s.”
“You giv e me quite a start,” came the sigh of his relief. “It’s awful dark tonight, ain’t it, sir?”
“Sure is, Isaac. Think we’ll have some current in a few days. If you need anything, let me know.”
“We be all right, Mr. Mainwaring.”
“I’ve got no phone, Isaac, but we could get out in an emergency. Better close your door. Don’t let your heat out.”
“It’s awful cold , sir.”
“Cut from the woods if you need to before the current comes back on, but not after.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not after, Isaac. Understand?”
“Yes , sir. Thank you, sir.”
Crossett did n ot let anyone cut from the woods of Winterhurst except in the most extreme of circumstances. In fact, he himself bought his own firewood. Nor did he let anyone hunt there, not with a gun, anyway, although he had given the Barrow Hunt Club permission to pursue the fox hunt through Winterhurst as a further concession to his riderless status within it. Besides, if he had not, the club would have had to ride on Green Spring Road to get to the next farm through which they could hunt, and such stubbornness on Crossett’s part may have lost him his membership and as he was socially correct in Barrow, he could not let that happen.
Where Isaac had dragged a makeshift plow along the f arm road, Crossett could hear the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, but the smooth, lumpy surface promised to turn to icy glass as the temperature dropped. Gingerly, he picked his way along the newly cut road past the corn crib and sheds sheltering the four tractors to the farm gate that led into the lawns of Winterhurst. The snowflakes tapped a few still-dangling brown papery leaves as he passed beneath the trees. He stopped to listen for a sigh among the shiftless branches as the wind swept in a gust through the walkway leading like a gauntlet through the two rows of maples that branched out into the sweeping lawn. The only sigh he heard was his own as he bemoaned the towering shadow of his house ahead.
It was Twynne’s matter-of-fact attitude that had made the visit so unsatisfying. He had spoken of ghosts as if they were no more than cats and dogs roaming the premises, underfoot at times, but generally cooperative. He had exhibited irritation at Crossett’s skepticism, the same Crossett whom years ago Twynne had ridiculed for alarm at Winterhurst’s strange nocturnal noises. That is indeed how it all had started. As alliances were in a constant state of flux among Crossett and his three brothers, he had one day in a fit of camaraderie revealed to his younger brother Edmund his fear of Winterhurst’s nightly sounds. He was not to learn until a few days later what a mistake he had made. When Twynne next spent the night, Crossett found himself corralled and herded into the abyss of his closet. It was even greater sport because Crossett was the eldest
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